When you're pregnant, for whatever reason, your body holds onto all of the hair that you would normally shed. For many women this is one of the better side effects of pregnancy; people who have sort of mousy, thin hair naturally get these bouncin' and behavin' locks for the first time in their lives, and whatever discomfort they're feeling can be slightly assuaged by looking in the mirror at their luxurious Farrah locks.
For me, this was a non-event. My hair is naturally so thick that a few thousand extra hairs didn't make a whole lot of difference to me; the only benefit I could see was that I wasn't having to clean out the drain as often.

But, as with all things bun-related, eventually the chickens come home to roost. Those few thousand hairs that my body hung onto are now being released from their little follicle prisons, and they're coming in droves. First, I started to notice that I was picking my hair off of the bun far more often. More alarming was the hair in the diaper. One must think to themselves in such a scenario: "Did he eat it? Did this make the unfortunate trip through his poor innards? Is that why he's fidgeting so much?"

Next was the hair in the bands. Copious little rat's nests of hair winding themselves around previously naked hair-ties. There is nothing quite so unappealing as tying your hair back with some tiny animal home. Also, it's collecting on my pillow in small piles. I'm sleeping with wombats.

But today was the big day. The husband took the bun for a walk and I took the opportunity to take a leisurely shower. What should have been a relaxing, mellow experience was more akin to a horror movie: hair sliding down my back, collecting in my bum crack where it would transfer to the loofah, almost the size of a vole but not nearly as cute. It was on every surface of my body and the bottom of the tub. Every scrub of my hair would unleash tides of tiny emigres, running for the drain, the Ellis Island of my DNA. There I had to pull out piles of fur, one after another like something out of a fifties "Thing" movie: THE HAIR THAT ATE PORTLAND.

It is, needless to say, a little unappetizing to run my fingers through my hair and come away with what can only be described as a fistful. I will be relieved when all the migrants have found their way to their final destination: the lint trap in the dryer, or the toilet paper tube that I tuck the drain collection in for safe keeping. I will not miss this chapter.